The sun didn't exactly rise that morning—it just lightened the sky, casting a dull orange hue that softened the rooftops and painted the street in long, muted shadows. Rowen stood at his gate, locking it with slow fingers. The air smelled faintly of rust and wet soil. A night's worth of dew clung to the edges of the curb, and the neighborhood was still wiping the sleep from its eyes.
He started his walk toward the shop. It wasn't far—just a seven-minute stretch past identical fences, overgrown bushes, and lampposts that leaned a little too much to one side. A familiar rhythm. He walked this path every day, and like most things in his life, it asked nothing from him. No one nodded at him. No one waved. That was the point.
The bag over his shoulder held a sandwich, a notebook, and a tool pouch. The same items in the same order. Predictable, necessary. Not a trace of chaos. He found peace in patterns, even the kind others called dull.
He passed a dog tied outside a shuttered tea stall. It glanced up at him but didn't bark. Rowen nodded to it once—habit, not affection—and kept walking.
He didn't check his phone. He rarely did in the mornings. There were no messages waiting anyway. People who might've texted years ago had long gone quiet. Friends who had shared meals and long nights of aimless talking during college had faded into new lives. He hadn't pushed them away. But he hadn't held on either.
They drifted. He let them. He didn't owe anyone explanations.
A scooter zipped past him, its rider glancing once over a shoulder before turning the corner. Rowen's gaze lingered on the taillight before shifting to the pavement again. He stepped over a puddle. Avoidance came naturally to him, even in small things.
When he reached the shop, he unlocked the steel shutter with practiced ease. It groaned a little, like always. Inside, the air was stale but still. He flipped on the lights, setting his bag down behind the counter.
The repaired smartphone lay on the cloth pad near the register. Fully charged. Cleaned. Rebooted.
He hadn't looked through it much. Only what was needed. He never snooped. That was a rule he didn't break. But the wallpaper had caught his eye—a couple, arms linked, smiling at nothing in particular. Rowen had glanced at it once and forgotten it.
Now, as he tidied the tools on his bench, his thoughts drifted—not toward the phone, but to something more shapeless.
He returned to the counter and sat down, checking over his notes from the day before. Nothing urgent. No pending deliveries. No repairs that couldn't wait. The hum of the lights above settled into the background like a familiar whisper.
Outside, the day moved forward. Inside, Rowen remained still.
Then came a knock.
It wasn't loud. Just a brief, polite rap on the door—barely enough to break the rhythm of silence, but unmistakable. Rowen looked up, slow and steady. He glanced at the smartphone on the counter, then at the clock. 9:41 a.m.
He stood, not in a rush, and walked to the front door.